


Glitterin Generalities

by Itsagrifthing



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Ambiguous Relationships, At Blue Base, Chorus Trilogy, Crash Site Beta, Healing, High Tensions, M/M, Season/Series 11, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-15
Updated: 2017-01-17
Packaged: 2018-09-17 13:52:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,914
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9327716
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Itsagrifthing/pseuds/Itsagrifthing
Summary: Love. Friends. Home. Words much too high, much too golden for Wash's liking. So he sticks to the basics.And he realizes that maybe Blue Team isn't so bad after all.





	1. Love

_ “Do you walk in the valley of kings? _

_ Do you walk in the shadow of men _

_ Who sold their lives to a dream? _

_ Do you ponder the manner of things _

_ In the dark?” _

* * *

 

“I love you.” 

Such high words, almost ninety feet in the sky. Glittering. Golden. Far above his head, where he dared not reach, for fear that he would drag the words down into the pits of darkness with him. 

He did not deserve such words, he knew that. So that’s why, instead of accepting them, Wash threw them right back to where they came. He shook his head. 

“No. You don’t,” he said, and turned away. The girl’s eyebrows-- he couldn’t remember her name-- furrowed, and she huffed. He didn’t even flinch as she tossed what was currently in her hand at the time (it was some textbook) and stomped away. 

And that was it.

Until he met the Sim Troopers. 

* * *

 

“ _ Private Tucker,  _ for the love of  _ god,  _ would you  _ please  _ stop sleeping naked!” Wash roared, immediately repressing an eyeful of things he didn’t particularly  _ want  _ to see. He should have known better, this was the third time this week that Tucker had felt the need to display his…  _ extremities.  _ And yet, Wash always had a foolish optimism that some of the things he says actually stuck in his team’s head. That optimism was quickly fading. 

Feeling blindly around the room, while keeping one eye covered, Wash grabbed a dirty pair of sweatpants, something that resembled a shirt and a sock covered in-- he dropped the sock. He threw the clothes at Tucker, who merely yawned and stretched and--  _ Jesus Christ,  _ Wash could see  _ everything.  _

So  _ completely  _ done with the Private, Wash groaned and stomped out of the room, tossing a ‘You better goddamn be ready in five minutes or I’ll be making you run  _ sprints.’  _ over his shoulder, and slamming the door shut behind him. 

Wash took a deep breath once out in the hall, and leaned against the wall. Sometimes, he felt like a middle-aged mother with an unruly teenager, rather than a CO. He shook his head and started down the hallway to Caboose’s room. He sincerely hoped that he wasn’t half as bad as Tucker is when  _ he  _ was in basic. Of course, the Basic that Tucker went through, and the Basic that  _ Wash _ went through were probably two completely different altogether.

“Caboose?” He rapped on the door that had been crudely spray-painted blue, and pressed his ear to the door. While Tucker was consistently sleeping in and-- Wash shivered to think about it--  _ naked,  _ Caboose’s sleeping schedule was much more sporadic. Some days he slept like a tank and wouldn’t wake for anything, while other days he hardly slept at all. Occasionally, he would even  _ sleepwalk,  _ successfully scaring the shit out of Wash at three in the morning.

“Caboose!” He shouted, reaching up to pound on the door again, but before he could, it opened and a big, shiny face peered out. 

“Um, hello Agent Washington.” Wash frowned, and tried to peek around Caboose, but the door was only open a crack. “Um. You can’t come in right now.” 

“What are you doing, Caboose?” Wash sighed, hoping that there wouldn’t be another mess that he would have to clean up. The last time Caboose had acted like this, he was trying to hide some exotic bird that he had caught.  _ That _ ended badly, with Tucker rolling on the floor with laughter, and the bird’s talons stuck in Wash’s hair. 

_ ‘I don’t think I’ve ever heard a grown man scream so loudly!’  _ Tucker had said, wiping a tear from his eye, much to Wash’s annoyance and embarrassment. 

_ ‘It was… surprising,’  _ he had replied stiffly, resolving to work on his reaction timing. There once was a time where nothing could get the better of him. Now, however… He was just out of practice. That’s all. 

“Caboose! Open the door!” 

“Um. Yeah, I don’t think I can to that.” Wash tried to push on the door, but Caboose held it firmly in place. After an awkward few minutes of tug-o-war, Wash gave up. “Just… come down in five for morning training, okay?” 

“Okay!” And the door slammed shut. He shook his head and turned just in time to see Tucker--  _ fully naked _ \-- heading toward the showers. 

_ “TUCKER!”  _ He screamed. 

“You’re not my mom!” Tucker yelled back, and slammed the bathroom door shut. Wash had the sudden urge to pull out his hair and burn down the whole base. He settled on downing two cups of sugary-sweet coffee instead, and heading out to practice with his throwing knives.

 

* * *

 

“Hey! You there! Bluelancer!” Sarge’s gruff voice carried well across the canyon. Wash sighed and lowered the knife he was just about to release. 

“Yes, Sarge?” he asked tersely, as the Reds came--  _ uninvited _ , might he add-- onto the training field Wash had set up. 

“You think that we could… uh,  _ borrow _ some of them fancy knives there?” 

“Why? You don’t even know how to use them!” Sarge glanced at Grif, who was busy scouting for a nice, shady place to take a nap. 

“Well, I got a target for ya, at least!” Wash groaned. 

“For the last time, I’m not using a  _ person  _ for target practice!” 

“But Tex did back in Blood Gulch!” Simmons pointed out, and Wash felt himself stiffen at the mention of her name. 

“Yeah, well, I’m not Texas,” he muttered, turning back toward the target. Grif snorted. 

“ _ That’s _ obvious.” Wash glared at him, and the orange trooper wisely backed up. 

“So. Do you have an  _ actual  _ request, or are you just here to waste my time?” 

“Yeah. Can we use your tank?” 

“What-- No!” 

“But we--”

“Absolutely not.”

“Fine. But don’t come running to us when you see our amazing fort renovations!” And thankfully, with that, the Red team left. Wash sighed, picked up another blade and wound up. 

“Dude, was that the Reds?” Tucker asked between yawns as he joined Wash on the training field. Wash lowered his knife and glared in the general direction of the temporary “Red Base.” 

“Yeah. They wanted our tank.”   
“What? For what?” Wash stepped over to the makeshift target and began pulling out the knives that had been embedded in it-- each almost perfectly in the center. 

“Never mind that. Where’s your helmet?” Tucker rolled his eyes, and pulled his aqua helmet out of nowhere. 

“What’s the big deal? We’ve been here for two fucking weeks,  _ and not a single thing has happened,”  _ he muttered, jamming it reluctantly on his head. Wash ignored him, instead methodically placing his knives down on the ground, arranging them all by size, and began putting them back into his bag. 

“So when do I get to learn  _ that _ ?” Tucker asked, eyeing the knives with a gleam in his eyes. Wash shook his head. 

“Tucker, you can’t even run two laps around the canyon without passing out. What makes you think I’m just going to hand you a bag full of knives?” Tucker huffed. 

“I can run more than two laps! And how would you know? You haven’t even sparred with me yet!” He challenged. “For all you know, I could be fucking  _ awesome,  _ but you wouldn’t care, would you? You’d still make me run goddamn  _ laps!” _ And that was  _ it  _ for Wash. He slammed down the knife he was examining, and it clattered against the rest of them. Tucker jumped. 

“You know what? Fine. Let’s spar.” Wash growled. Tucker glanced at him suspiciously. “If you can beat me, I’ll show you how to throw knives. If not, you spend the  _ whole day  _ running laps around the canyon.” Tucker balled his fists. 

“Okay,  _ fine _ ! It’s not like I have anything to lose!” They glared at each other for a few seconds, each with their shoulders drawn up to their ears. 

“Caboose!” Wash shouted over his radio. “Get down here! I need you to be the ref, so Tucker can’t complain that I cheated when I win.” Tucker started to protest. 

“Okay!” the reply came, and no fewer than thirty seconds later, the cheery blue trooper was with them on the field.

 

 

Tucker and Wash squared up, each on opposite side. Wash tensed up once, then relaxed all his muscles and eased into his stance. He rolled his neck. This will be easy. He met Tucker’s gaze from across the field, and he could feel the heat of the glare from where he was. 

“Runner’s take your mark!” Caboose shouted. “Ready, get set, go!” 

Wash let Tucker come to him, using the distance to his advantage.  _ Be ready,  _ he told himself. Tucker had a lot of energy, but he used it too quickly. All Wash had to do was draw out the battle, then he could defeat Tucker easily. Until then… 

Tucker reached him in no time, immediately striking out with a clumsy punch. Wash easily sidestepped it, except Tucker recovered with impressive speed and kicked at him. Wash barely managed to deflect the blow, but it knocked Tucker off balance. Tucker didn’t take the effort to regain his posture, so when he kicked out again, Wash grabbed his leg and smoothly jerked him off his feet. Tucker hit the ground hard, groaning. Wash glared down at him. 

“Well that was fast,” he taunted, surprising himself with just how  _ malicious  _ his words sounded. He was angrier than he thought. 

“Fuck… you…” Tucker wheezed, and pushed himself up. He sank back into a stance, firmer this time. But again, his first strike was clumsy, and it cost him. Wash caught the blow with his fist, and landed two hits of his own to Tucker’s stomach. When Tucker doubled over, Wash swept his legs out from under him.  _ “ _ You  _ dick!”  _ Tucker spat, jumped back up, and flew at Wash with incredible ferocity.

“What’s going on over here?” Wash hadn’t noticed, but at some point, the Reds had come back over.   
“Oh, Tucker and Wash are just sparring,” Caboose informed them helpfully. Grif eyed their intense battle. 

“ _ Just _ sparring?” 

“Always knew the Blues would end up destroying each other!” Sarge grunted. “I’ve been waiting for this day all m’ life!” 

“Yeah… I’m kinda glad I’m not on  _ their  _ team,” Grif said warily as Wash forcefully kicked Tucker back down onto the ground, prompting a string of obscenities. 

“Yeeaaahhh…” Caboose mused. “Blue team is pretty great.” 

 

 

“Alright, enough Tucker!” Wash shouted as Tucker struggled to push himself up for the twelfth time. “You’re done! Give it up.” 

“You’re an asshole!” Tucker yelled, swinging wide at Wash. The blow was pathetic, and Wash caught it, dragging it to his chest and anchoring Tucker, who struggled to break free. 

“Tucker. That’s enough,” he commanded. With a final heave, Tucker ripped his hand away and glared at Wash. 

“Whatever,” he muttered, kicking angrily at a rock on the ground. Wash watched him with pursed lips, and felt a tiny pang of regret. Maybe he shouldn’t have been so hard on him… It wasn’t entirely Tucker’s fault that tensions were running high anyways. It had been over two weeks since they crashed in the canyon, and Wash had been terrified that they would be ambushed out of nowhere. This whole canyon had screamed _danger_ when they had first landed, and he couldn’t shake the eerie feeling that they were being watched. But Wash definitely could have been handling his stress better. He was a _Freelancer_ afterall. He was trained to handle this kind of stuff. All the Reds and Blues had ever done was half-heartedly play a jumped-up version of capture the flag. 

“Tucker…” Wash started. 

“Yeah, yeah I know. I’ll go run the laps.” 

“No, I just--” Tucker interrupted him. 

“Whatever, Wash.” Wash shut his mouth as Tucker stalked off. He glanced helplessly at Caboose and the Reds. They just looked at him pitifully, and the Reds left silently back to their base. Wash groaned and sat down on a rock. 

“Godammit. I always fuck  _ everything  _ up,” Wash groaned. Caboose awkwardly patted him on the back. 

“It’s okay. Tucker is just upset because he misses Church,” Wash sighed. 

“I know. Epsilon leaving really hurt you guys, didn’t it?” 

“Yeah…” Caboose muttered, uncharacteristically dejected. 

“I’m sorry. I wish I could be better leader…” At this, Caboose looked at Wash, and vigorously shook his head. 

“No... I like you Washington. You’re a good leader. You let me hug you. Yeah... Church never let me hug him. He would just yell at me.” Wash snorted. “And you let me keep Bubbles.”

“Who’s Bubbles?” Wash frowned, but Caboose just continued. 

“And you always let me go on walks when I am sad. And you make really good omelets for breakfast.” Wash didn’t mention that was all he  _ knew  _ how to make. “And you help me when I have bad dreams.” Caboose looked like he could go on all day, so Wash stopped him. 

“Thanks Caboose, but those are all things a CO is supposed to do.” 

“No… I don’t think so.” Caboose said. “Friends are supposed to do that.” Wash paused. 

“Friends?” 

“Yes! You are my friend, Washington!” 

“Oh.” The thought hadn’t even occurred to him. But then, he supposed, recalling the chemistry between the Blues when Church had been there, and how close, how  _ trusting  _ they were with each other, that’s just how these teams worked. Wash couldn’t even remember the last time he had worked with an actual  _ team,  _ with people who were more than just someone who probably wouldn’t stab you in the back. But now, he was here.  He had a team. And, according to Caboose, he had… friends.

And that was it. He had friends. He had  _ family.  _ Here he was, stuck in a hole on some god-forsaken planet, decked out in full-battle armor, with a shitty, rundown, makeshift base built from scavenged parts, with a team across the canyon that may or may not attack him at any given moment… and Wash realized that this was his home. 

“Caboose, I...,” Wash fumbled, at a loss for words. Everything he could think of to say was  _ wrong.  _ What  _ do _ you say when someone completely turns your world upside down? Thank you? I’m glad you’re here? I never knew? 

_ I love you?  _

The words were too pretty for him, glittery. Too high. He wasn’t good enough for them. So Wash stuck to the brutal, honest truth. The only words he knew he could say without dirtying them. 

“You’re my friend too Caboose.” 

And that was it. 


	2. Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "If Wash got off his goddamn high horse for one goddamn second, he would realize just how low that fight had been."
> 
> That’s what Tucker was thinking on his first lap around the canyon. That, and a whole lotta curse words.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, it's kinda short. ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯

_“I said you got me where you want me again_

_And I can't turn away_

_I'm hanging by thread and I'm feelin' like a fool_

_I'm stuck here in-between_

_The shadows of my yesterday_

_I want to get away_

_I need to get away”_

* * *

 

_If Wash got off his goddamn high horse for one goddamn second, he would realize just how low that fight had been._

That’s what Tucker was thinking on his first lap around the canyon. That, and a whole lotta curse words.

Like _seriously_ , who did the fuck did he think he was? It was obvious that he wasn’t going to go _easy_ on him, but Wash hadn’t even given Tucker a chance! He just wanted to stroke his own ego, that’s all. And using Tucker to do that, when he was _serious?_ Not cool. And now _Caboose_ was probably learning how to throw knives. Tucker wouldn’t put it past Wash to do that just to spite him.

* * *

 

_Fuck him and his motherfucking God Complex._

That’s what Tucker was thinking on his second lap around the canyon.

Wash isn’t the _leader_ of the Blue team, Church is. Or was. Whatever. It’s not like anyone elected him, or appointed him as leader or anything. No, the guy just waltzed in all ‘Hey guys, I’m in charge now. Ten laps around the canyon and you better not disobey me!’ He just likes to order people around, it makes him feel important.

Tucker would bet good money that Wash doesn’t even know what he’s _doing_ . That he’s just throwing out random instructions and hoping no one would realize he doesn’t know _shit._ Well guess what, Washington? Everyone can see right through your _bullshit._

* * *

 

_He’s such an asshole._

That’s what Tucker was thinking on his fifth lap around the canyon.

What’s he doing now? Probably trying to fix the stupid _comms_ tower that won’t work anyways, or just hanging out and throwing knives with Caboose, acting all important and shit. In fact, he was probably laughing at Tucker right now. ‘Ha ha, look how _stupid_ he is, thinking _he_ can beat _me,_ a _freelancer!’_

God dammit.

 

* * *

 

_Prick._

That’s what Tucker was thinking on his tenth lap around the canyon, because he didn’t have much energy to think much else.

He was wheezing, and his legs were burning and holy shit _Wash was right,_ he’s super out of shape, but he’ll never admit that out loud ‘cuz Wash _was_ an asshole, no matter how you slice it.

 

* * *

 

_Alright, motherfucker, you won._

That’s what Tucker was thinking when he collapsed on the grass, panting and _utterly_ exhausted. His arms and legs were splayed out on the ground like a starfish, and it took strength to even fucking _blink._ Fuck.

How many laps did he do? It better have been a lot. Tucker check his HUD, and goddamn near cried when he saw the number.

Twenty five laps.

Mother. Fucking. Twenty. Five. Laps.

That’s it?! He’s about ready to fucking _die,_ and he only did twenty five laps?!

That’s only three miles! Jesus Christ.

Finally feeling the tiniest bit of strength seep back into him, Tucker groaned and squeezed his eyes shut. He was _seriously_ out of shape, he never even realized it before. There wasn’t a whole lot of running needed back in Blood Gulch, and he always seemed to manage whenever they went on crazy trips. There was a brief time in the desert when he would work out periodically, but only because he didn’t have anything else to do locked up in the temple.

Twenty five laps. God dammit.

He felt a coolness settle down on his chest, blocking him from the harsh sun. His eyes fluttered open, but he just groaned and shut them again as he saw who it was.

“Fuck off,” he moaned. “Just leave me to die.”

“How many laps was it?” Wash asked, and Tucker glanced at him in shock, because his tone wasn’t condescending or taunting or even amused. It was… genuine. Like what a coach would use.

So Tucker didn’t hesitate as long as he normally would to tell him the laps.

“Fucking twenty five,” he groaned, wincing at how _disappointed_ he sounded.

To his credit, Wash didn’t snicker or yell. He just nodded, and allowed for a resting silence.

“That’s five more than you ran yesterday. Good job,” Tucker glanced at him suspiciously because again, Wash’s voice was so _genuine._ He studied Wash, but that was hard to do since he was wearing a helmet. So Tucker just sighed.

“Whatever. It’s not that good.” The silence fell between them again, and Tucker simply focused on breathing. Wash watched him. After a few seconds, Wash sighed and pulled off his helmet. If Tucker had the strength to sit up straight, he would, because Wash _never_ took off his helmet outside the base. Something was up… but Tucker’s anxiety trickled away inexplicably as he realized just how _blue_ Wash’s eyes were. They matched the sky perfectly.

Wash slowly laid down on his back next to Tucker, hesitantly, but deliberately. Tucker felt like he should reciprocate the gesture by taking off his helmet, but he knew he was a sweaty mess, and he didn’t really want to show that off to Wash. So Tucker just turned to look at him.

“Did I ever tell you that I was actually the worst fighter in my squad in Freelancer?” Wash said suddenly, staring up at the sky. Tucker raised an eyebrow.

“Seriously?” Wash shrugged.

“Well, it depended on who you asked. York said I was the _second_ worst, but he was probably just being nice.” Tucker snorted. “I wasn’t the strongest-- that was Maine. I wasn’t the fastest-- that was Carolina. I wasn’t fearless-- that was South. I wasn’t the most sensible-- that was CT. I wasn’t the sharpshooter-- North and Wyoming. Hell, I wasn’t even the funniest. That was York. I was just… the rookie. I was just the guy they could pick on and get away with it. I was just the guy with high hopes and high dreams, and I crashed and burned because of it. And… in a way… I was a bit like you.” Tucker scowled.

“Hey! I’m _by far_ the most handsome guy in this canyon. Probably the funniest too. And I’m _totally_ fearless.” Wash held up his hands.

“And that’s where we’re different,” he agreed. “But you’re young and playful. You’re also incredibly driven by your beliefs. You have a set definition of right and wrong, and you’re not afraid to fight for it. I used to think that’s what I was too...” _Until I realized I had been played._ Wash didn’t finish his thought. Instead he took a deep breath. “I just want your story to have a different ending than mine. I guess… that’s why I’m being so hard on you. Because no one was ever hard on me.”

“ _Bowchickabowwow.”_ Tucker couldn’t resist quipping. Wash just rolled his eyes.

“Don’t make me change my mind,” he warned, and Tucker shook his head.

“No, I get it dude. I admit it, I’m an asshole. I… appreciate it. I’ve never had a coach before.” Wash turned to look at him, and again Tucker couldn’t help but notice just how strikingly _blue_ his eyes were. “Just… lay off the ‘I’m the boss of you’ act. It’s annoying.” The corner of Wash’s lips turned down and he hesitated.

“I’ll do my best,” he agreed. “But no promises.” Tucker sighed. That was the best he’s going to get.

“Hey, I’ve been meaning to ask you this.” Wash raised an eyebrow. “All the freelancers got fancy suit equipment, right?” He nodded.

“Carolina had a speed boost, North had the bubble shield, York had the healing unit…”

“Right,” Tucker said. “What about you? Did you get any cool tricks?” Wash frowned, struggling to remember. It had been so long since Freelancer…

“I think I had an EMP…” he said slowly. “But I didn’t use it much.”

“What… you mean an emp?” Tucker asked, grinning slightly. Was sighed and rolled his eyes.

“Yes Tucker,” he said, as if talking to a child. “I had an… emp.” He turned his eyes back to the sky, and the two of them fell quiet.

Tucker’s breathing had somewhat normalized by then, and his legs were no longer shaking. In fact, he could probably hobble all the way to the base if he wanted to. But Tucker glanced at Wash in the golden sun, comfortable and at ease next to him, his blonde hair sparkling… and he decided that he could stay there on the grass for a _little_ longer.

 

* * *

 

 

“God _damn_ it!” Wash swore, shooting straight up and raking a hand through his hair. He grabbed his helmet, which was sitting on the grass next to his, and jammed it on his head. He cursed himself for not paying attention, for letting his guard down, _for falling asleep._ ‘ _You really are losing it, Wash.’_ he chided himself. ‘ _If you’re falling asleep in the middle of a danger zone.’_ He turned and shook Tucker awake.

“Yeah… what is it?” He muttered, lazily waving a hand.

“Get up!”

“‘M awake.”

“Tucker!

“ _Okay,_ okay, I’m awake. What’s the matter?” Wash cursed again and jumped up.

“We fell asleep.” Tucker cracked open an eyelid.

“I know dude, it’s called a nap-- _woah!_ It’s dark out!” Wash glared down at him.

“Oh really? I haven’t noticed!” he said sardonically. “Damn it, who _knows_ what happened while we were asleep?! Caboose could have been hurt, or accidentally blown up half our base, or the Reds could have attacked or _they_ could have blown up our base or--”

“Dude,” Tucker said, with such ferocity that Wash stopped and glanced at him in surprise. “Chill. We were only out…” he checked his HUD. “Three hours. Nothing that big could have happened in three hours.”

“But--”

“No,” Tucker said, again with a ferocity in his voice. “Relax. Nothing happened. It’s okay. We just took a nap.” Wash sighed.

“Okay, fine. I’m going to check on the base just in case, though.” Tucker groaned and struggled up. His legs were aching.

“Alright, alright, fine. But you owe me a backrub if I’m right.” Wash simply started off without a word, and Tucker reluctantly followed him.

 

“Caboose?” Wash shouted, but his voice only echoed up and down the empty hallways. “Caboose!” No answer. He turned and glared at Tucker. “I _told_ you something happened.” Tucker shrugged.

“It’s Caboose. He probably fell asleep in a tree somewhere.” Wash hesitated and glanced nervously at Tucker.

“Does he do that?”

“No! I’m just fucking with you, chill out.”

“Caboose! Help me look for him, Tucker. Caboose!”

“Ugh, _fine._ Caboose!”

“Caboose!”

“Caboose, god damn it get your ass out here!” Wash pointed down a hallway.

“You search over there. I’ll check in his room.” Tucker sighed and stalked off, shouting the whole way. Wash turned down the other hall, rushing past various doors until he reached a bright blue on. He knocked on it.

“Caboose?” No reply. He tried the handle, and found that it moved easily. Wash gently pushed open the door and stepped inside, clicking on the lights.

Immediately he froze in awe. He wasn’t quite sure _what_ he was looking at, but it was incredible.

Caboose had shoved aside his bed and various pieces of furniture to make space on the middle of his floor. Bright, glistening metals took up this space, the light glinting off and reflecting on the walls. Wash carefully stepped forward to examine… it.

 _It_ was, first and foremost, enormous. The top of it nearly reached the ceiling, and it blocked half of the room. It seemed to be a structure of some sort, made of different colored scraps of metal… but they all _worked_ together, fitting together like a perfectly crafted jigsaw puzzle. Silver next to bronze next to gold next to black, and there was even some bright reds, blue and greens thrown in. It was tall on three sides, and low in the middle but the _detail._ Wash had to physically remind himself to breathe.

“Hey, I couldn’t find Caboose. Is he in his ro-- holy _shit.”_ Tucker came up behind Wash, and slowly took off his helmet so he could see better. His mouth gaped open, and he was rendered speechless. Wash couldn’t only nod. “Is that… the canyon?”

And Wash could _see_ it. He saw the cliffs, the rock formations, all bent in impeccable detail, almost a snapshot. He had no doubt that if he went outside, he would be able to pick out the exact rock in the sculpture. He saw the engine of the ship, and the small base the Reds had made under it. He could pick out mini statues of each of the Red members, complete with Grif sleeping, Sarge with his shotgun, and Simmons in his garden.

On the other side, there was Blue base. It was incredible and tall and at the very top, Wash could see the three of them, the blue team holding hands and standing at the top of the world. Caboose was in the middle with Wash and Tucker on either end. There was something in Wash’s hand… he had to squint to see, but his heart skipped a beat as he read a word clutching in the figures grip.

It was a very high, glittering word. But then again, in this sculpture, they were at the top of the world.

 _Home_.


	3. Interlude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we take a short break from Blue base to see exactly what has been happening at Red base.   
> It's not good.

_ “Got a couple of couches sleep on the loveseat _

_ Someone keeps sayin' I'm insane to complain _

_ About a shotgun wedding and a stain on my shirt _

_ Soy un perdedor _

_ I'm a loser baby so why don't you kill me? _

_ (Double barrel shotgun)" _

* * *

 

“Grif! Get’cher keister out here!” 

“Fuck off, I’m trying to sleep!” 

“If you don’t get out of here, you’ll be sleeping alright! Permanently!” 

“Ugh…. _ fine.  _ I’m coming.” 

 

Grif blindly waved a hand around the room, looking for a light switch. He knocked over a few things in the process, but it didn’t matter, his room was a mess anyways. He might admit it was a pigsty, though he still wouldn’t clean anything. ‘ _ I like it messy.’  _ he would tell Simmons every time he complained. ‘ _ It’s comfortable.’  _ Simmons would roll his eyes and huff at that, but at least he would leave Grif alone for the day. 

His fingers finally connected with the switch, and he flipped it on. Light flooded the tiny room, piercing through his tightly shut eye-lids. He groaned and flipped it off. That’s better. 

“Grif!” His name bounced around the flimsy metal walls of their base, but Grif didn’t bother to reply. Instead, he just flipped off the general direction from which the voice came, and rolled out of bed. 

His eyes were still shut slightly, so he just kinda patted around the room, searching for his armor. It took him several minutes before he realized that it was already on him, and that he must have fallen asleep in full body armor again. He groaned, and in the background he could hear his name echo again, coupled with vague threats about a shotgun. 

“ _ Fuck.”  _

 

“Um… do you think this is really necessary, sir?” Simmons asked nervously, eyeing the large pile of boxes Sarge had set up to the side of the base. Sarge simply glared at him, and Simmons winced. He cleared his throat. “Uh, I mean… this is the  _ best  _ idea you’ve had sir! Of all time.” At that, Sarge grunted in satisfaction. Simmons rolled his eyes, and was grateful for the helmet hiding his face.

“Alright, what the  _ fuck  _ is going on?” an irritable voice demanded from behind. Simmons sighed and turned around. “Do you  _ know  _ what time it is? Too early!” 

“You know, after  _ years  _ of waking up at the same time every day, you would think that you’d’ve become more of a morning person,” Simmons quipped. Grif huffed. 

“I like mornings! They just come at an inconvenient time.” He turned to Sarge. “So? What’s so important that you had to scream your head off for me, rather than dump a bucket of cold water on me like you usually do.” Sarge chuckled. 

“While I  _ do  _ enjoy that… this makes up for it!” He turned to gesture at the pile of boxes, and paused dramatically. Grif glanced at Simmons after a beat, and sighed. 

“I give up. What is it?” 

“ _ This,”  _ Sarge said, sounding almost choked up, “is the C4 stores leftover from the crash. I found ‘em in some cave the other day, and moved ‘em to our base before the Blues could find out!” Grif eyed the crates and swallowed. 

“Um. Those are…  _ all  _ filled with explosives?” 

“Yup,” Sarge said proudly, obviously beaming under his helmet. Grif back up a few feet. 

“Are we going to use them to set up defensive barriers around the canyon in case of an attack?” Simmons asked helpfully, but Sarge just shook his head. 

“Nope.” He tried again.

“Are we going to use them to dislodge parts of the ship that we could use for parts?” 

“Nuh-uh” 

“Use them to tunnel our way out of here?” 

“Negatory.” Simmons threw up his arms, exasperated. 

“Well then, what  _ are  _ we using them for?!” Sarge turned to face them head on then, and Grif could see his wicked smile through his helmet, and feel the glint in his eyes burning a hole through his helmet. 

“Boys,” he said. “We’re gonna build a wall.” 

 

There was a time in Simmons’ life where he had it all. During basic, he had the respect and admiration of his peers. He had the somewhat grudging acknowledgement of his superiors. He had semi-good scores in most of the drills they had to run. He didn’t have to talk to his Dad everyday. And they even gave him a fancy  _ maroon  _ colored uniform, instead of the regulation red most had. Life was good. No, life was  _ great.  _

And then he met  _ Grif.  _ And then he was sent on a mission no trainee should ever have run. And then, for all his efforts and struggles, he was given a pat on the back and shipped off to some god-forsaken ditch in the middle of nowhere, where he was told to fight three guys for the remainder of his life. Just like that, it was all gone. The suddenness of it all was so  _ drastic  _ it left him breathless, and at any given moment in the day, he would have to stop and wonder…  _ why was he even here?  _

Now was one of those moments. 

“We’re gonna  _ what?!”  _ Grif screeched so loudly that Simmons thought that it had probably woken the Blues. Sarge didn’t even flinch, instead he stroked the crates lovingly. 

“Yup. To keep out the Blues! With these babies right here, anything is possible,” he said in revelry. Simmons cleared his throat. 

“And exactly how are we going to _build_ something with _explosives?”_ Sarge looked at him in surprise, and Simmons hoped for a brief second that maybe, _maybe,_ some sense was getting through to his crazy CO. 

“Simmons! I expected better of you!” Or not. 

“Sorry sir?” 

“We’re going to use it to blast rubble off the cliffs, and then use those to build the wall!” 

“But  _ sir-- _ ” 

“Give it up Simmons. He won’t listen,” Grif sighed. “Let’s just get this over with.” 

“That’s the spirit… er, Grif…” Sarge started, before he realized exactly who he was praising. He shook his head, as if that would clear all traces of the compliment out of the air, and continued. “Now, let’s get to blowing!” Grif and Simmons exchange glances. “Rocks!” Sarge added, to clear things up, and began unpacking the crates. Grif sighed and set down his rifle.   
“I’m totally going to regret this later.” 

 

* * *

 

“You know, I  _ really  _ don’t think this is a good idea,” Simmons muttered, thankfully out of earshot of his CO. Grif sighed. 

“I heard you the first  _ fifty fucking times _ you said it, Simmons,” Grif snapped, fiddling with a charge. Simmons finished the one his was working on, then frowned at the explosive Grif held in his hands. 

“Do you need help with that? You’ve been working on it for a long time.” Grif just sighed and turned to Simmons. 

“Allow me to fill you in on a little secret, Simmons. You gotta  _ pretend  _ to work on something, but do it really badly. That way, if you draw it out long enough, you don’t have to set as many,” he explained, with the tone one would use when talking to a child. Simmons huffed and picked another C4 out of the box. 

“You know, not all of us are as lazy as you are Grif.” 

“What a shame. It’s so sad to see you all waste your precious energy on something so trivial… like  _ moving _ .” Simmons chose not to reply to that, and instead he set the next charge in silence. 

“Hey,” he finally said, after a few minutes had passed by. 

“Yeah?” Grif replied, still on the same charge. 

“Do you ever wonder why we’re here?” At this, Grif sighed and set back on his heels. 

“It’s cause our CO is an asshole.” Simmons snorted. “And cause we have the  _ worst  _ luck.” 

“Tell me about it,” Simmons muttered, and armed the next charge. He stepped back in surprise. “Hey, I think that was the last one.” Grif sighed. 

“Oh thank god, I think my arms are about to fall off.” Simmons ignored him again, and called Sarge over from where he was resting in the shade. 

“We’re done!” Sarge sprung up and rubbed his hands together giddily. 

“Sweet Erwin Rommel, I’ve been wanting to set an explosion this m’ whole life!” 

“Are you sure this will work sir?” Simmons asked, for the nth time, glancing up at the cliff covered in charges. “It’s going to be a  _ big  _ explosion… debris will be falling from everywhere--” Sarge waved him off. 

“Don’t spoil my party, Simmons! Alright, now get to cover.” He pointed at a large rock with a piece of metal on top. Grif glanced at it. 

“Um, no way are we all going to fit--” 

“Of course not! It only fits two! Someone will have to go find their own cover… preferably someone  _ orange.”  _ Simmons started to protest, but Grif just glared at Sarge. 

“I fucking hate you.” 

“The feelings mutual. Now go away, dirtbag! I’m gonna blow those charges in exactly three seconds!” Grif sighed and wandered off, while Sarge and Simmons hunkered down behind the rock. 

Grif had just barely left when he heard a cry ring out from behind the rock. 

“Three, two,  _ one!”  _

“Oh  _ fuck!”  _ Grif shouted, diving for cover. And with a press of a button, it all came crashing down. 

 

The explosion was even bigger than Simmons had predicted, and immediately, he worried that they might have gotten in way over their head. They were sitting at the base of an eighty-foot-high wall covered in C4, and it exploded all at once, sending an enormous fireball straight toward them. Simmons yelped and ducked down, but Sarge just stared at it, his eyes glittering, and the fire reflecting off his visor. Simmons had to yank him down. Then, small rocks began to rain down on them, pummeling onto the flimsy metal sheet just above them. A few projectiles even cut clean through the metal, and Simmons could only wonder how Grif was faring. 

After what seemed likes ages of endless rocks, finally, there was a stillness. No more debris hailed down on them, and the heat from the fires finally subsided. Simmons peeked out from their cover. 

“Huh,” Sarge said, disappointed. “I hoped there would be more… rocks.” And Simmons saw he was right. The only debris knocked loose were the tiny ones, and while they littered the ground, there wasn’t nearly enough for them to use. Simmons glanced at his CO. 

“It’s alright sir, maybe the explosion caught Grif!” he suggested in an attempt to cheer Sarge up. It seemed to work, as his helmet lifted slightly. He grunted. 

“Well, I suppose that  _ would  _ make it better--” 

“Jesus Christ!” A high-pitched voice carried well into their cover, and Simmons sighed. “You couldn’t have waited  _ one second  _ before setting them off?!” And there was Grif, in his singed orange armor, stomping furiously toward them. Simmons ducked out from behind the rock. 

“Oh, you’re alive,” he said apathetically. 

“Yeah. No thanks to  _ you.”  _

“Oh, can it you big baby,” Sarge said, joining them. “I had an itchy-trigger finger!” 

“Oh  _ fuck  _ you--” 

“Wait!” Simmons interrupted. The two turned to glare at him. “Do you guys hear that?” They paused, listening. But after a minute, Sarge shook his head. 

“I don’t hear anything.” 

“Yeah, did you get hit on the head with a rock Simmons?” 

“Just listen!” he insisted. “There it is again! Like a… rumbling…” They stopped as Simmons turned to face the cliff. The rumbling got stronger and stronger, and suddenly, they  _ could  _ hear it, but it was  _ really  _ loud and the sound began to travel through the ground. Simmons staggered as the dirt beneath his feet began to shake, and he watched in horror as the top of the cliff began to smoke. And then, as sudden as the explosion, the entire wall began to slide off, an enormous sheet. 

Grif and Sarge both dove for the makeshift cover, somehow managing to quarrel the whole way. But Simmons just froze in shock, unable to move as a literal  _ wave  _ of rocks came crashing toward him. 

“Simmons, move!” Grif shouted from behind the rock, but his voice was lost in the noise. “Simmons!” 

But no matter how loud he yelled, Simmons couldn’t hear him. And Grif could only watch as the rocks came crashing down… right on top of the maroon soldier. 

 

* * *

 

“Simmons! Simmons! Wake up!” Someone was shaking him awake, knocking his already aching head against the ground. He groaned, and waved at the person. He didn’t have the strength to push them away. 

“I’m awake, asshole,” he slurred, groggily opening his eyes. The person sighed in relief. 

“Oh thank god,” and Simmons had to stop for a second because that voice… that voice filled with  _ panic… _ it sounded like-- 

“Grif?” he asked wearily, blinking a few times to adjust for the light. He could just barely make out an orange-shaped mass next to him. Grif nodded.

“I wanted to wake you straightaway, but I knew I had to wait several hours to ensure you were safely recovered."

"What! How long have I been out?"

"Five minutes. I got bored.” Simmons regained just enough energy to hit him, knocking him off the rock he was perched on. 

“Ow…” Simmons groaned as he slowly sat up. “The back of my head….” The world was a little blurry, but with every breath, it got clearer. He gaped as he took in the sight around him. “Holy  _ shit _ .” 

And that was an understatement. Rubble covered the entire clearing, and there was a thick layer of dust over everything. The few pieces of their base that he could see were scattered around in various places… and there weren’t very many of them. The engine above them had somehow slid down the rock it had landed on, and was now casting a shadow over them, a little too close for comfort. He hoped that the proximity of the engine wouldn’t have a negative effect on anything.   
He could barely make out a red figure jumping over various rocks and laughing gleefully. Simmons groaned. 

“Yeah, please just knock me out again.” 

“What. The. Fuck.” Somehow, the Blues had managed to make their way over to Simmons and Grif, and now Wash was glaring down at them with incredible ferocity. “Can you  _ please  _ explain to me just  _ how _ you  _ managed _ to bring down an  _ entire fucking cliff?!”  _ Simmons winced as his voice, rising in pitch, pierced through his aching head. Grif pushed himself and helplessly glanced at them. 

“Holy  _ crap  _ dude, that must’ve been a hell of an explosion!” Tucker exclaimed as he glanced up and down the cliff. 

“It was  _ glorious!”  _ Sarge joined them. “Best day of m’ life!” 

“Now I’m going to have to fix my sculpture…” Caboose muttered dejectedly. “Yes, um. Do you have any more explode-y thingies?” 

“No, Caboose,” Wash told him fiercely, and turned to Sarge. “I’m still waiting on an explanation.” 

Simmons and Grif exchanged knowing glances, waiting for the inevitable truth to come out. Sarge was obviously beaming again as he turned to Wash. 

“We’re going to build a wall!” 

“You’re…  _ WHAT?!”  _


	4. Safe

_'Cause I am living just to breathe_

_And I need something more_

_To keep on breathing for_

_So give me something to believe”_

 

* * *

 

“ _Home. What does that mean to you, Agent Washington?”_

_“I… I don’t know. Until a while ago I thought it was Project Freelancer. But now…”_

_“What was your home before the Project?”_

_“I…I don’t remember.”_

_“How do you define home?”_

_“I don’t know. It’s… it’s a very… glittering word. I suppose… it’s a place where you feel safe. At ease.”_

_“Do you feel safe, Agent Washington?”_

_“No. Not anymore.”_

_“Good. We can use that.”_

_“You can?”_

_“Yes. How would you like to be assigned to a new unit?_

_“...What’s it called?”_

_“Recovery.”_

_“Honestly? I’d do anything to get out of here.”_

_“Good. Well then, welcome aboard, Recovery One.”_

 

The alien sun glinted off the metal in such a way that Wash could not take his eyes off of it. The paper-like folds and creases in the metal bounced the light around the room, creating shapes and patterns along the walls of the base. Dulled, rusted colors sprinkled throughout the sculpture somehow didn’t seem so very drab, and instead bathed Wash in a sea of raw emotion. Transfixed, he stared at the image for countless minutes, and it took his very breath away.

Caboose’s statue, _Rockslide,_ as he called it, had been moved to the main room of Blue base, mostly because it didn’t fit anywhere else. This was rather problematic for Wash, because when he would try to create drills, or review the supply list, he would become distracted and was perfectly content to stare at the sculpture instead. And yet, he couldn’t bring himself to get rid of it.

“--was saying… Hey, Wash? _Wash?_ Dude, Earth to Wash. Or… whatever the name of this planet is.” With tremendous effort, Wash broke his gaze away from the sculpture.

“Hmm? Oh, sorry Tucker. What were you saying?” Tucker huffed and crossed his arms. Wash abashedly took a sip of his less-than-sweet coffee (they had run out of sugar yesterday, which Wash was _not_ happy about), and Tucker repeated himself.

“I was _saying,_ when are you going to teach me to throw knives?”

“Throw knives?” Tucker sighed and rolled his eyes.

“ _Yes,_ Wash,” he said, exasperated. “Throw knives. You know, that badass shit you do with all the twirling and everything…” He began demonstrating with his table knife, which quickly clattered to the ground.

“Right…” Wash said absently, and felt his eyes drifting towards the statue again.

“Hey... _Wash!”_ Tucker snapped his fingers under his nose, and Wash jumped.

“Oh. Sorry.” He cleared his throat. “Um. I guess you’re ready… you did pretty well with the drill I gave you yesterday.”

“Ha, damn _right_ I did!” Wash mulled it over.

“Alright then. I can teach you the basics I guess.” Tucker pumped his fist in the air.

“ _Hell_ yeah!” He shoveled in the rest of his breakfast and jumped up from the table. “I’ll go put on my suit.” Wash nodded, sipping on his coffee, and _yet again,_ his eyes wandered toward the sculpture. Tucker barely noticed this time, though, in his rush to go get ready.

“I’ll be down in five!”

"Yeah..." Wash sighed, and stood up to go put own his own armor.

 

* * *

 

And then, somehow, Wash found himself over at Red base. He remembered putting on his armor, remembered heading down to the training field to meet with Tucker, and then…

There was a large explosion. He remembered that. He remembered how the ground had shook like a wild animal, knocking both Wash and Tucker off their feet, and the enormous fireball that shot into the sky. He remembered hospital beds sliding, and lights flickering, and how the gravity seemed to shut off and _where was Maine, where was Carolina, where was York and North_ and a panic bubbled up in his chest because _nobody was coming, what if they left him_ \--

No. That didn’t happen. What happened was… Wash pulled himself and Tucker to their feet. They sprinted toward Red base, dodging the last of the falling rocks. Wash picked his way through the rubble and dust, eternally grateful for his air filter.

And now he was here, with Simmons and Grif off to the side-- they seemed to be okay, at least-- and with Sarge blabbering about some insane idea he had brilliantly come up with. Now he was here, and everyone was okay, except his head hurt a _lot,_ and every time he looked at Simmons, he saw North or York or CT…

No. He had focus on the present. The past can’t bother him anymore. Right now, his first priority is the people in this canyon who are still alive. So Wash took a deep breath, and turned to face Sarge.

“Alright,” he commanded, interrupting the CO’s rant. “I don’t know how this happened, and I don’t really care anymore.” He could feel all the eyes in the canyon on him. “Right now, we’ve got to work on cleaning all this up.”

“Right!” Sarge agreed. “So we can build a wall!”

“No, no one is building a… wall. We can’t be divided against each other anymore. We need to _work together_ to survive in this canyon. And that means no more-- _are you listening to me?!”_

After a lengthy discussion involving many suggestions about where to put the rocks and many suggestions about where Sarge can stick his shotgun from Tucker, and even an impressive temper tantrum Wash could barely believe came from the oldest man in the canyon, they finally all settled on putting some rocks to reinforce the crumbling rock structures damaged in the explosion, while leaving a few behind with the Reds to help build their base back up.

“This is going to be a long day,” Grif muttered, and Wash couldn’t agree more.

 

* * *

 

 

“Man, this _sucks.”_ Tucker complained, passing a rock off to Simmons. “Here I was, about to _finally_ learn how to throw knives and then…” He waved helplessly at the mess.

“Tell me about it,” Simmons agreed. “I’m not even built to carry heavy objects for long periods of time. My cyborg parts are _definitely_ going to be sore tomorrow.” Tucker snorted.

“Man, I _would_ be sore but Wash has made me do worse than this before so… wait. Cyborg parts?” Simmons looked at him in surprise.

“Yeah, you didn’t know?”

“No, what the fuck?! Dude, you’re a _robot_?!” Simmons huffed.

“Not a robot, a _cyborg._ Some of my limbs and organs were given to Grif when you ran him over with your jeep, and they were replaced with metal parts.” Tucker eyed him warily.

“Damn, I mean, I always knew you guys had, like, a _thing_ between you two… but _shit_ man.” Simmons nearly dropped the rock he was carrying. “You’re not gonna… I don’t know, go all _Terminator_ on me, are you?” Simmons scoffed.

“Don’t be ridiculous. I _wish_ I got half of the things the Terminator had. Most days, I have to oil my own arms.” Tucker nodded, thinking.

“So… less Terminator, and more Tin Man from _Wizard of Oz,”_ he mused. Simmons sighed.

“Yeah… that’s pretty accurate. Unfortunately.” Tucker glanced at him sympathetically.

“That sucks… but I gotta ask. Is… _everything_ metal? Like even your--”

“Tucker! Keep working!” Wash shouted, carrying a huge boulder on his back. Tucker sighed and rolled his eyes.

“Yes, _your majesty.”_ He handed another boulder to Simmons, who set it in the pile.

“Is he always like that?” Simmons muttered.

“Dude, you have _no_ idea.”

* * *

 

"No, not over there!  _Over there!"_ Grif shouted, pointing toward a big pile of rocks. Caboose hefted the rock he held and made his way over. "Christ, what an idiot." Sarge grunted, rolling a boulder towards the same pile Caboose was headed toward. 

"Damn... bluetards...," he managed between wheezes, and Grif was even impressed at his determination to insult the other team. 

"Tell me about it." Sarge finished stacking up his rock, and turned to glare at Grif. 

"Grif! What are you doing? Don't just stand there, get to work!" 

"But Sarge, I  _am_ working!" Sarge stared at him and folded his arms. "I'm  _supervising."_

"Supervising?" Sarge echoed.   
"Yeah, it's  _gruesome_ work. You should be glad that I made the sacrifice to fill this position." Sarge grunted.   
"I  _do_ like the sound of you making sacrifices..." he muttered. 

"Exactly!" 

"Fine. Keep working then." 

"If you insist sir." Grif turned to yell at Caboose, who had stacked his rock on a pile. "No not  _there!_ I said  _there!"_ Caboose groaned and hefted the boulder. "Well... I  _am_ doing a pretty good job, if I do say so myself, so I think it's high time for a little break..." He glanced around for Wash (who was busy yelling at Simmons and Tucker), and ducked into a little shady patch. 

He didn't move again for another few hours. 

* * *

 

Wash brushed dust off of his armor and gazed around the canyon. They seemed to be making good progress, and had mostly dug out what was left of Red base. Together, they had managed to create an assembly line that stretched across the canyon, and stacked up boulder after boulder around some of the weaker pillars that threatened to topple onto blue base. But it had been hard work, and Wash could see that everyone was in dire need of a break.

“Alright, that’s enough for today!” he called, clapping his hands together. Immediately, Simmons and Tucker collapsed spread-eagled on the ground together. Sarge leaned up against a wall, catching his breath. Caboose seemed to be unaffected, and it took him a few minutes before he realized everyone had stopped working. He set down a rock that was twice the size of him, and bounced over to join Sarge (who didn't even have the energy to shoo him away). Wash frowned, and glanced around the canyon. _Someone is missing…_

Grif yawned and popped out from the shade of a large boulder. He stretched.

“Are we done yet? Alright, good work guys, good hustle! I’m gonna go take a nap…” Wash stomped over and grabbed the back of his armor.

“Yeah, and what work have _you_ done?” Grif gulped, and twisted his neck to look at Wash.

“Uh… I was… supervising.”

“ _Supervising?”_ Wash sputtered, letting go of Grif’s armor in his surprise. Immediately seizing the opportunity, the orange trooper sprinted away, faster than Wash expected him capable of. “Hey, wait!” But he had already disappeared. Wash sighed. Grif would have to come back _eventually,_ since the food stores were right next to blue base. For now, however, Wash decided to go prod Tucker, and make sure he’s alive.

 

* * *

 

 

“So in the end, I didn’t get to learn how to throw knives,” Tucker muttered, dejected.

“I had to actually _work_  all day, _and_ I had to miss dinner so I could avoid Wash,” Grif added. He shuddered, remembering the hour-long lecture that Wash sprung on him when he tried to sneak in the food stores for a snack. Simmons glared at him. "Supervising is a  _very_ hard job," he defended. 

“I got hit in the head,” Simmons offered. “Also I ran out of size thirteen bolts.”

“Well _I_ didn’t get to build the wall I wanted! And it was going to be so beautiful…” Sarge cried, his eyes watering.

“And I! Am upset about something too!” Caboose joined in. Everyone ignored him.

“Guys?” Tucker said, leaning his head against the rock behind him. “Let’s never have ideas again. Ever.” Muttered affirmations replied.

“We do seem to be kinda bad at those,” Simmons agreed.

“Yeah I-- I don’t get ideas,” Caboose said.

“We know!” Grif glared at him. “He had absolutely _no idea_ where to put all the rocks, so I had to tell him! That’s exhausting work.”

“Shut up, fatass,” Simmons started, but Sarge interrupted him.

“I think my idea’s are the best. In fact, I was thinking, what if we--”

“No!” the sim troopers chorused. Sarge grunted. Tucker sighed, and kicked his feet off the edge of the cliff. The troopers had managed to find a ledge on the cliff facing South, and were perched on it, watching the alien sun descend into the horizon amongst a smattering of reds and oranges.

“It’s beautiful” Simmons muttered. They all agreed, but no one said it aloud. He turned to Grif. “You should’ve seen the one this morning.” Grif just snorted.

“Sorry Simmons, but no sunrise is important enough to wake me up for.” The maroon trooper shrugged.

“You don’t know what you’re missing.” Tucker groaned.

“Yeah, well, I have to see them every damn morning when Wash makes us run drills. Let me tell you, it’s not all that great.”

“Maybe I should make you all run drills. Light a fire under your asses,” Sarge mused.

“No!” Grif and Simmons shouted in unison. Sarge grunted again and gripped his shotgun.

“Speaking of which… where is Wash?” Simmons asked. Tucker shrugged and gestured toward Blue base.

“Probably at the Comm tower again. Dude never leaves the place.”

“Do you think we should call him over?”

“Nah, let him be,” Sarge said. Tucker, Grif and Simmons glanced at him in surprise, but he didn't elaborate.

“Yeeahhh… Wash really wants to get out of here,” Caboose muttered absently.

“He wants to get _all_ of us out of here,” Tucker corrected. “That’s what’s frustrating. He thinks he can save everybody by himself.” Grif and Simmons exchanged glances.

“Blue team problems,” they said in unison. Tucker glared at them.

“At least our problems don’t involve blowing up an entire cliff!”   
“ _So_ boring,” Grif said, rolling his eyes.

“Hey, _asshole,_ if you guys were the tiniest bit more boring, I could be throwing knives right now!”

“Like we care.”

_“You know what--?!”_

“Hey, guys? I just realized that we haven’t remade our base yet,” Simmons interrupted. Grif groaned.

“We _suck.”_ Simmons pushed himself up, then helped Grif reluctantly get to his feet. Sarge sighed, then got up as well.

“Alright, let’s go. Double time!”

“Yes sir!”

“Sir, we’ve been working our asses off all day. Can’t you give it a rest?”

“Triple time for you, Grif!”

“Oh come on!” And the Reds disappeared down the cliff-side, bickering until they were out of earshot. Tucker sighed and pulled off his helmet. He closed his eyes, feeling the last traces of warmth leave his face as the sun slowly sank. Darkness was something he was never really accustomed to, since it was always sunny back in Blood Gulch. Tucker decided that, while he liked the change in scenery from time to time, he preferred the daylight where nothing could be hidden.

“Mind if I join you?” Wash asked quietly, and Tucker opened his eyes. Managing to surprise him again, Wash was in nothing but a sweatshirt and jogging pants. His blonde hair was ruffled and messy, and there were huge dark circles under his eyes. Frankly, he looked worn out. Tucker scooted over.

“Yeah, sit down.”

“Hi Wash!” Caboose said cheerfully, standing up.

“Hi Caboose… where are you going?”

“To bed,” he said simply, and with that, he descended the cliff. Wash watched him go blankly.

“Oh. Okay,” Wash said, taking a seat next to Tucker. “Wonder what _that_ was about.”

“It’s Caboose, who _knows_ what he’s thinking,” Tucker said dismissively, but he was more preoccupied with something else. “Dude, when was the last time you actually _slept?”_ Wash opened his mouth, but Tucker cut him off. “For _more_ than three hours.” Wash shut his mouth.

“I… don’t know. A few days maybe?” he said sheepishly. Tucker sighed.

“Why _not?”_ Wash hesitated, and looked down at him lap where his was twisting his fingers into knots.

“I… well…” Tucker waited. “I get… nightmares,” he said honestly. “Bad ones.”

“Oh.” Tucker didn’t mention that he _knew_ that, he could hear Wash sometimes at night, shouting and banging on the walls. But he wasn’t sure how to respond to such an honest confession. “Well… have you tried keeping a journal or something?”

“A… journal?”

“Yeah, like a video log or something. I don’t know.”

“I… no. No I haven’t.” Tucker shrugged.   
“Well you should try it. Who knows, it might help.”

“Yeah… I’ll keep that in mind.” They lapsed into an awkward silence, and Tucker desperately tried to think of something to say.

“So… you told me that you were the worst fighter in your squad. Any other things I should know?” Wash mulled it over.

“Well, it’s not anything big, but I used to own a few cats.” Tucker snorted. Somehow, he could _totally_ see Wash with a cat.

“Yeah? How many?” Wash counted on his fingers.

“Ten,” he said definitively, and Tucker nearly fell off the wall.

“ _Ten?!_ Dude, you were a crazy cat lady!”

“What-- I am not!” Wash protested, and Tucker cracked up.

“Oh, you _so_ are!” Wash folded his arms and waited for Tucker to calm down. “So?” he asked, once he did. “What were their names?”

“Hartford, Bristol, Milford, Meriden, Augusta, Lewis, Saco, Puffs, Oliver and Luna,” Wash said, ticking the names off on his fingers. Tucker watched, both amazed and amused.

“Dude,” he said, once Wash had finished. “Were those even allowed?” Wash shook his head.

“No, these were before the project.” He frowned. “I had to give them away when I joined.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.” Again, a silence fell between them, but this time, it was a bit more comfortable as they both watched the last bits of the sun dip down behind the cliffs in the distance. But even as the last traces of light disappeared in a mass of reds and golds, Tucker eyes couldn’t help but drift to _Wash_ instead of the sunset, finding himself admiring the striking way the light hit his face and how it made Wash look… _calm,_ rather than  exhausted. And how it looked against his blue eyes that skimmed across the canyon, looking lucid and bright and _beautiful…_

“I used to skateboard, too,” Wash said suddenly. Tucker jumped a little, and quickly turned back toward the sunset.

“Uh, what?” Wash nodded.

“That’s what I was known for, at first. In fact, Theta-- North’s AI-- even copied it.” He chuckled a little at the memory. “Actually, that’s how I learned how to throw knives. Connie offered to teach me in exchange for me showing her how to skate… until it got taken away, of course.” He glanced at Tucker and frowned. “I forgot, didn’t I? To teach you knife throwing?”

“Nah, it’s okay,” Tucker assured him quickly. “It was a busy day.” Wash snorted and leaned his head back.

“That’s for sure.” Tucker felt the last traces of warmth leave him as the sun finally disappeared. He shivered. “Tomorrow.”

“What?”

“I’ll teach you. Tomorrow. For sure this time.” Tucker allowed himself a quick glance, and found himself meeting Wash’s blue eyes. He nodded.

“Alright,” he agreed, and Wash pushed himself to his feet. He offered a hand out to Tucker.

“Come on, it’s time to get some rest.”

“Yeah.”

 

* * *

 

 

Wash felt a little foolish as he cleared his throat.

“Journal entry One-Zero-One.” The sun had risen again, casting a fresh light on the canyon. The Reds were awake, he could hear them bickering in the distance. Caboose was… _somewhere_ , hopefully not getting himself into trouble, and Tucker was on his morning run. Wash promised to teach him knives after his run, provided nothing went wrong this time.

Caboose’s sculpture still occupied as big a space in the base as it did in Wash’s mind, and it was now updated with the newly formed piles of rocks they had made yesterday. Caboose had even let Wash help make some of the rocks. In another life, Wash thought, maybe Caboose would have been a world-famous artist.

Wash had slept last night, actually _slept,_ as in, for five hours. The nightmares hadn’t come that night, they were replaced with warm memories and thoughts of setting suns. It probably helped to be able to hear Tucker’s snores from the next room over. He didn’t know why though… but at least it was a _start_ . He had probably surprised himself most of all when he went up to the cliffside last night… surprised at just how _safe_ he had felt.

That word didn’t typically apply to his life.

“It's been awhile since I've done one of these so uh, let's get caught up to speed. Everything can be traced back to Project Freelancer: a military organization gone horribly wrong. The men in charge were corrupt, and the soldiers who followed them were blind - and guess which side I was on. Eventually, it was the project's own creations that tore it to pieces and _I_ was the one sent out to pick them up. I recovered weapons, armor and A.I. fragments all in an effort to keep the wrong people from getting them first. But I was too slow. Everyone fought over the remnants of Project Freelancer. I didn't think I could believe in anyone any more. But then, I met the Reds and Blues….”

 

* * *

 

“How would you describe your time at Rockslide, Wash?” Someone would ask him sometime in the future. And Wash would close his eyes, picturing the warm sun, the majestic blue base, the colorful soldiers. He would close his eyes, and remember the early mornings, the absolutely breath-taking sculpture that took up half of their main room, and the firm-- and somehow reassuring-- shadow of the cliffs. He would think of training and of bickering and of laughing.

He would think of words, high as the cliffs, glittering and sparkling in the sunlight. Love. Friends. Home. Safe Words that he thought-- he _knew--_ would never apply to him again… but somehow, they lingered just on the tip of his tongue. And he would think of aqua and blue and red and maroon and orange and pink and brown and purple and he would realize that maybe, _maybe,_ the words weren't as far out of his reach as he thought they were.

So Wash would smile, open his mouth, and deliver that word, that final word, that would cement his whole time with the Sim Troopers as a memory that was his _own,_ not Alpha’s, not Epsilon’s, not the Director’s… but _his._ His own perfect memory.

“It was home.”

And that was it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was mostly dialogue... oh well. Thanks so much for the kudos and the comments guys! I really enjoyed working on this story, and I hope you enjoyed reading it too!


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